


Tatterdemalion

by blackkat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Friendship, Ghosts, Horcrux Hunting, Humor, M/M, No character bashing, Regulus Black Lives, Romance, meddling ghosts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14977553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Running and hiding are all Regulus knows, and he has no plans to change that. But Sirius escapes Azkaban before Regulus can find the traitor who framed him, and suddenly all of Regulus's careful plans are falling down around his ears. Add in a meddling ghost, an old love, an overly-curious boy, and a desperate search for the remaining Horcruxes, and this year may just be enough to put Regulus back in the grave he thought he'd escaped.





	1. Chapter 1

_The line of life is a ragged diagonal between duty and desire. ~ William R. Alger_

* * *

 

After all his plotting, after all his many years of scheming, the news still takes him entirely by surprise.

Sirius Black screams and rails at him from the front page of the Daily Prophet, and Regulus freezes in place, staring at the first image he’s seen of his brother in almost thirteen years.

 _Oh_ , he thinks dumbly, and his hand is already halfway outstretched to touch before he’s realized it even moved. Sirius looks _worn_ , looks like the madman he’s so frequently painted. The hair he always took such care of is matted and snarled, long in a way that looks ragged rather than rakish. His eyes are sunken, his cheeks hollowed, his entire body pared away until little remains of the handsome, charming rogue Regulus last saw him as.

It does not quite feel like a death, though, seeing him this way, because his eyes are clear. Even in the grainy, madly moving newspaper picture, Regulus can see that much. Sirius’s eyes are steady. Raging, furious, _betrayed_ —but clear. There is no hint of madness in them, no matter how much Sirius otherwise looks the part.

“Well?” the vendor asks sharply, watching him with wary, untrusting eyes. “Going to buy it, or just admire ‘im from a distance?”

Regulus casts him a scathing look from under the heavy hood of his cloak, but reaches into his pocket nevertheless. A knut disappears into the man’s meaty hand, and Regulus departs with his paper, eyes flickering furtively around the small wizarding village. No one is watching, but he’s lived with the imagined weight of hostile eyes on himself for thirteen years, and logic will not banish the sensation so easily.

The people here pay him little mind, however. No one stares, and the few sideways glances he gets are because he is entirely covered, hidden away behind a voluminous black cloak. The innkeeper even nods as he slips into the main room, and Regulus forces himself to nod back, fingers creasing the paper in his agitation, before he heads up the stairs. The urge to run is nearly irresistible, impatience hounding at his heels to know just what the article says, just why Sirius is news again _now,_ months before any of the proof that Regulus has so painstakingly cobbled together is ready for even the most cursory of reviews.

He has little enough gold, and even less inclination to spend it frivolously, so his room is small and bare, sporting only the most basic amenities. The bed at least is soft, and Regulus sinks down on it without pause, flipping back his hood and spreading the Daily Prophet out on the threadbare quilt.

 _BLACK STILL AT LARGE_ , the headline screams, and Regulus presses a shaking hand over his eyes, drawing in a slow, careful breath.

_Damn._

This is the price he must pay, avoiding humanity the way he has been. This is the cost of it, his complete divorce from current events. Because he is a sniveling _coward_ who cannot face the rest of the world, he has entirely missed word of his brother’s escape. From _Azkaban_ , which should not be possible, but then Sirius has always taken great pleasure in turning the world’s expectations on their heads.

Regulus could have done without his usurping this one, however.

His fingers rake through his hair, clenching and _yanking_ , and Regulus reminds himself to breathe. One breath and then another, in and out, keeping a careful rhythm, and finally his heart starts to slow. Finally the pressure around his chest starts to ease, and Regulus opens his eyes to meet the furious grey gaze staring up at him from the newsprint.

“Damn it, Siri,” he whispers, and it’s been so long since he spoke aloud that the words rasp painfully in his throat. “You can never make anything easy, can you?”

Not that he blames his older brother, or resents him his freedom. Not that he would wish Sirius back into the dementors’ grasp for anything, but—

He had a plan, or the bare, desperate beginnings of one. He had a _plan_ to clear Sirius’s name, to get him out of that damned prison without a manhunt that covers all of England and the entire force of Aurors baying for his blood. Granted, moments of it were rather too self-sacrificing for Regulus to stomach, and his leads have been running dry for the past ten years, but he could have compensated. He could have worked around that, if Sirius had just given him _time_.

There's none of that now, though. Regulus’s Slytherin soul practically cringes at the thought of winging it from here on out, but everything he’s been working towards has gone up in smoke thanks to his brother’s recklessness.

It’s like being children all over again, he thinks with a wry, reluctant smile. Sirius forging on ahead, bold and brash and careless, and Regulus stalking along behind him, aggrieved and aggravated and secretly adoring of his vivid older brother, cleaning up after him even as he complained. Regulus is sorely out of practice, because he all but lost Sirius when he was fourteen, but he has a feeling he’ll remember soon enough—and that Sirius will give him more than enough practice in the coming months.

“Think,” he mutters to himself, fierce and rebuking. He can't afford to get caught up in thoughts of the past right now. He has to find Sirius, has to find him and learn what he knows and share what he’s managed to learn in the twelve years Sirius spent locked away, what he’s managed to _save_. But Regulus is on the run himself, so far underground that he can hardly imagine what it is to live any other way, and he has no idea how to chase down a man who’s managed to elude both Muggle and magical forces. Sirius has his Animagus form to fall back on, after all—and honestly, he was so far from circumspect about it at school that Regulus is surprised _someone_ hasn’t put the pieces together yet—

School. Hogwarts. James. _Harry_.

If there's one place Sirius will doubtless go, it’s Hogwarts. He won't be able to resist the draw of seeing his godson. Regulus knows it, and he has no doubt that the Aurors know it as well, though their line of reasoning likely follows the second-in-command-to-the-Dark-Lord path, rather than Regulus’s own idiotically-loyal-and-sentimental-Gryffindor understanding. The only other likelihood is that he’ll try to find Remus, but given that Remus never even called for a fair trial after Sirius’s arrest, Regulus suspects that something happened between them.

Of course, he could be trying to find Pettigrew, but Regulus dismisses that thought as quickly as it surfaces. If his own sources—and he has many—haven’t managed to so much as hear a single rumor regarding the little traitor in over a decade, he highly doubts that Sirius, stuck in Azkaban, would have managed to locate the rat.

So. Hogwarts. Regulus pulls his legs up and crosses them under him, leaning back and closing his eyes to consider his approach. Not as himself, certainly, and it’s far too late in the year to apply for any sort of position, even if he had the appropriate paperwork. Besides, Albus Dumbledore is the only man the Dark Lord ever feared, and Regulus has a healthy respect for him that’s mostly gleaned from that, and can't imagine lying to his face the way he’d doubtless have to. The Slytherins used to mock him, but Regulus always kept silent—another instance of cowardice, fear where he shouldn’t have had any.

But Sirius is the Gryffindor in their family, and Regulus has only ever once managed to be brave. And even that failed miserably, in the end.

With a grimace, Regulus drags his mind back on task. He won't make it into Hogwarts as himself, and not under an assumed identity, either. So that leaves…

Another grimace, because this is hardly better than waltzing up to the main doors and asking for a job, but it’s at least _slightly_ more circumspect. And at least it will be well removed from anyone’s attention, even—

Regulus blinks, and smiles. One hand rises, touching the eight-pointed white star that hangs from a chain around his neck, and he lets out a long, slow breath.

All right. That could work. That could definitely work.

(It’s a desperate and foolish plan, so stupid. Regulus squashes the small, insistent part of himself that says he’s only picking this way because it’s a chance to see _him_ again.

Slytherins are, after all, incredibly good at lying, even to themselves.)

 

 

Hogwarts sits atop a spur of earth that stretches into the water of the Black Lake, looming grandly over the surrounding hills. It’s a sight that still manages to take Regulus’s breath away, and he pauses at the edge of the Forbidden Forest to stare at the castle’s glow, bracing a hand on a tree trunk as he catches his breath. Night has fallen thick and fast, brought on by the coming winter, and there's enough of a bite in the air that Regulus pulls his cloak a little tighter around his throat.

He’s right beneath the castle, staring up, and from this point it blocks the sky and covers the moon, swathed in clouds that shimmer eerily in the light of the unseen moon. It should by all rights feel foreboding, heavy and oppressive, but as Regulus stares up at it all he can feel is relief. Grimmauld Place was only ever a home because of Kreacher, and Regulus loved his time at Hogwarts far more. Seeing it lifts a little of the weight from his chest, lets him breathe just a little more easily.

If he timed his arrival correctly, the Welcoming Feast is just starting in the castle, occupying all of the staff and students. Regulus tries to always time his visits for the feasts, just for that extra bit of security when he knows the location of nearly everyone within Hogwarts’s walls. It helps the anxiousness that crawls through him like a living thing, putting a faint tremble in his hands, though it doesn’t do away with it.

Still, he’s never been caught before, and in the darkness it’s easy enough to push away, leave the cover of the Forbidden Forest and slip across the narrow stretch of open ground to the edge of the Black Lake. The water is calm, barely lapping at the shores, and Regulus grimaces as he wades right out into it, up to his knees. His boots are instantly full of water, his cloak sodden to a dragging weight, making every step hard, but he slogs through, out to where the stone underneath the castle itself meets the lake. It’s old and worn, craggy from the wind and the water, and Regulus squints at the rough surface, not about to risk a light even though everyone is supposedly distracted.

He doesn’t need to take the risk, thankfully; a moment of careful study reveals a crack that’s just a little darker than the rest, and Regulus reaches for it, hooks a hand in the jagged stone and pulls himself up. His boots scrape against the rock, then catch hold, and Regulus hauls himself up and forward, into the narrow fissure in the cliff face. A moment of struggling and he’s through, sliding past the opening and down the wall on the other side.

Here, safely surrounded on all sides by thick stone, with the weight of the whole castle hiding him, Regulus finally draws his wand, murmuring a soft, “Lumos,” as he brings it up. White light ignites, burning like a star, and it illuminates the small cavern where Regulus is standing, bouncing off weathered rock and sliding over roughly hewn steps that lead up and out.

Regulus had thought, at first, about hiding his secret here, making it simple to get in and out quickly with less time spent sneaking past the heavily warded castle. It felt like too great a risk, though, easy access when he wanted things secreted away. No magic to hide anything, not down here—Regulus is wary of anything that might affect Hogwarts’s magic, and he doesn’t want to risk losing the protections of the wards. Hogwarts is one of the most secure places in the world, particularly when one doesn’t know what she hides.

It was that extra dose of caution, that edge of paranoia, that made Regulus keep going, despite the risk of lingering. Makes him keep going now, up the stairs and through a low arch of jagged rock, around the sharp curve of a corridor and into another room, even smaller than the first. Two doors open off of it, identical in every way, and Regulus pauses, lifts his wand and murmurs a Point Me charm. The twitch of his wand towards the right door is all he needs, and he turns, takes the left instead. His breath escapes in a grateful rush as the knob turns easily under his hand, and Regulus all but falls through the doorway, catching himself on a low ledge.

The light from his wand falls across the curl of a golden chain, the round body of a jeweled goblet, reflects off the dark stone of a ring, but Regulus doesn’t so much as glance at them. Keeps moving, letting himself slide down a slope of worn stone until his wet boots hit flatter ground, and he staggers upright, throwing back the hood of his cloak.

“I am Regulus Arcturus Black,” he says, letting his voice carry across the wide room. “I come with peace in my heart and a plea for assistance on my tongue.”

There's a long, long pause as the room tests his truthfulness, weighs his words, and then light flickers. Lamps spring to life all around the walls, set on a low ledge that circles most of the room, and on the far side a great stone lion lifts its head, blinking long and slow. Regulus meets its gaze, holding eyes made of ruby and silver, and after a breathless eternity the lion shakes out its mane and steps back. It carefully picks up each of its paws, delicately avoiding the previously hidden casket that comes clear as it retreats, and Regulus can't help the sound of relief that escapes him, the way it always does.

The lion rumbles, low but loud in the hush, and the sound is very nearly amusement. It settles, lying down and curling its thin tail around its haunches, then dips its head and seems to go to sleep.

Regulus isn't foolish enough to think it’s _actually_ asleep, and he’s also cautious enough not to make any swift movements as he crosses the floor, avoiding the narrow stream that flows through the center and catching himself when he slips in the moss that covers its banks. No movement from the lion, and Regulus mutters a curse at himself, trying to calm the too-quick beat of his heart as he approaches. A beautiful thing, white marble with a red-gold mane and gold gilding around its face, but it has claws that glitter like diamond in the light and far too much magic contained within it to put Regulus at ease.

It makes the perfect guardian, though, fierce and relentless and forever wary, and Regulus murmurs his thanks to it as he presses his hand to the curve of glass that covers the casket.

One ruby eye slits open, and the lion leans down, presses its nose to the surface and breathes out.

Heat curls beneath Regulus’s fingers, startling enough to make his breath catch even if he doesn’t pull away. It’s not burning, just pleasant, but as the wash of it passes the frosted glass comes clear, golden runes shimmering on the glass for just a moment before they vanish as well.

The sight of the casket’s occupant is a relief that feels gutting, and Regulus wavers for a moment, undone by it. He curls his fingers into the stone, then leans forward, dropping his forehead against the glass with a sigh. Still here, he tells himself. Still alive, if it can be called that after all these years. Still with some form of _hope_ , no matter how slim.

Regulus can always have hope, as long as this man is still breathing.

“Your idiot best friend is going to make this a thousand times more difficult than it needs to be,” he whispers, closing his eyes to the sight of James's still face. Peaceful, beautiful, like he wasn’t betrayed by one of his closest friends and nearly killed by Voldemort. Regulus can't resist the sight of him for long, opens his eyes to trace the shape of his face with a fingertip before he’s pulling away again, breathing out shaky but determined.

“Thank you,” he tells the lion again, and lets his hand fall from the glass. “Keep him safe? If the spells start to fade—”

The lion rumbles, rising to its feet, and it steps forward to crouch over the casket, entirely immovable. It stares down at Regulus, patient and steady, and he closes his mouth. Twelve years already the lion has been guarding James, slowly, carefully piecing him back together, and it’s never once wavered. Can't, likely; it’s a magical construct tasked with protection and healing, and until James is whole again it won't stop.

“Let me know,” Regulus finishes weakly, but the glow is already fading from the lion’s body, sliding back down to the floor to leave it nothing but gilded stone. The lamps shimmer, some of their brilliance retreating, and Regulus only spares a moment to glance at the three treasures sitting on the self, pretty but innocuous. He shivers at the sight of them, the memories attached sending a chill down his spine, then grits his teeth and hurries onward, past the sleeping lion and up the flight of stairs concealed behind it. The steps lead up in a steep spiral, lit only by Regulus’s wand, but they’re smooth and even, unworn. Not even wind touches this place, with no windows to let it in; there's just the path rising through the center of the cliff, unknown to anyone but Regulus.

Many, many times, Regulus has wondered why the room showed itself to him when it’s so clearly a relic of Godric Gryffindor. Wondered what he could have possibly done to earn a sign from a House so opposite his own Slytherin, but it’s such a blessing he can never bring himself to dwell on the question. Asking too many times might take away the gift entirely, and Regulus can't risk taking James to St. Mungo’s, doesn’t dare bring him anywhere he might be recognized, where word of his continued existence might spread. He’s just barely alive, even twelve years later, despite all the counter-curses and healing spells Regulus can find, and at this point Regulus trusts himself and no one else.

A single point of light ahead marks the end of the staircase, and Regulus slows his near-running steps, extinguishes his wand and slips it into the holster up his sleeve. It takes a moment for him to catch his breath, but far less than it would have as a schoolboy; running from the Dark Lord has done that much for his endurance, at least. Slower, more carefully, he edges up the last few steps, watching the opening in the stone that leads right into the Gryffindor Common Room.

Empty, like he had hoped, and Regulus breathes out in relief, slipping out through a red and gold hanging that’s only a door from the back. He lets it fall back into place behind him, and—

Voices. Loud, cheerful children’s voices, from right outside the portrait door. Regulus breathes a curse, because apparently he wasn’t quite quick enough, and jerks the eight-pointed white star out of his robes, holding it up. A touch of will, a moment of concentration, and he hisses, “ _Felis catus_!” as loud as he dares.

The star shimmers, then starts to _burn_. Its light wraps around Regulus with a sharp-hot blaze across his nerves, and he swallows a yelp as his bones pop and shift. The world grows large, or he grows small, and there's a dizzying lurch as his center of gravity shifts.

“Coming through, coming though!” a voice calls, suddenly ten times louder, and Regulus winces. “The password is ‘Fortuna Major’!”

The portrait starts to swing open just as Regulus hits the ground.

 

 

Harry makes a beeline for the stairs up to the boy’s dormitory the moment he gets into the Common Room, wanting nothing more than a good night’s sleep after the indulgence of the Welcoming Feast. It’s a well-remembered path after the last two years, and—

His foot hits something soft, and there's a loud, indignant yowl. Harry yelps, pitching forward and flailing his arms as he tries to catch his balance, but something small hits his foot and he tries to avoid stepping on it, overbalances—

“Whoa, mate,” Ron says in alarm, catching him by the back of his robes and pulling him upright. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry manages, shoving his glasses back into place and swallowing. He looks down, searching for what tripped him, and finds a pair of blue-grey eyes staring balefully back at him. A small black cat with a splash of white on its chest unwinds itself from his legs, then sits down primly and licks its paw.

“Whose cat is that?” Ron asks curiously, leaning over Harry's shoulder to peer at it. The cat ignores him imperiously, as if it has every right to occupy the center of the Common Room floor and they're the ones intruding.

“I'm not sure,” Hermione says, crouching down to offer it her hand. It ignores her for another moment, just to make a point, and then turns and sniffs delicately at her fingers. “I haven’t seen him before.”

“He probably belongs to one of the first years,” Harry says, and with the mystery of the near-fall solved, he just wants to find his bed. Sidestepping the cat, he starts for the stairs again—

A paw catches the hem of his robe, tugging his back, and Harry pulls up short in surprise as the cat bounds in front of him, then taps his calf lightly but insistently. It meows, loud for such a small cat, and rears back on its hind legs.

“I think he wants you to pick him up, Harry,” Hermione tells him, sounding delighted.

At least, Harry tells himself, this cat is a good bit cuter than Crookshanks. A little gingerly, he leans down, and without waiting the cat leaps lightly onto his shoulder, balancing unsteadily for a moment before it finds a stable perch beneath Harry's left ear.

“Er, shouldn’t you be finding your owner?” Harry asks the cat, who licks its paw as if to say very clearly _I'm ignoring you now_.

“It should be fine, Harry.” Hermione stands up, reaching out to scratch under the cat’s chin. “Anyone who owns a cat expects them to wander.”

“You know a lot about cats for someone who’s never owned one before,” Ron mutters.

Hermione gives him a dirty look. “I _read_ , Ronald,” she says tartly, then turns on her heel and marches up the staircase towards the girls’ dorm. Ron subsides with a huff, and Harry is too tired to deal with either of them. Deciding to take Hermione's word for it, he takes the staircase towards the boys’ dorm, following the red of Seamus’s hair into the round room. The cat leaps down onto his bed as soon as he reaches it, and Harry leaves it to its business as it prowls his pillows, instead focusing on dressing for bed.

When he goes to crawl under the covers, unspeakably grateful to be back at Hogwarts, the cat is still there, kneading its claws into his mattress and watching him through slitted eyes. Harry squints at it as he tugs his hangings shut, and even in the low light the contrast between black fur and white marking is vivid. Cautiously, Harry reaches out a fingertip, and when the cat makes no move to stop him he gently strokes the white spot on its chest. It’s surprisingly clear, for being a marking—a star with eight points, a small dot of black in the very center that seems to grow as Harry stares at it. But then he blinks, and the illusion is gone.

“I'm sure your owner is worried about you,” he whispers to it. “Isn't there someone you need to find?”

The cat lifts its head and looks at him, blinks long and slow, and then wraps its tail around its paws, deliberately not moving.

After the Dementors on the train, Harry can't entirely say he objects to the cat’s presence. Pulling off his glasses, he sets them aside, then flops back against his pillows, closing his eyes.

The cat’s purr vibrates through the darkness, low and warm, and follows Harry down into his dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

_You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life. ~Winston Churchill_

* * *

 

Regulus gives it several long minutes after Harry's breathing has evened out before he moves, just to be safe, but the boy doesn’t stir when Regulus picks his way past the pillow and slides through the bed’s hangings. He’s cutting things close; the black has almost spread to the edges of the star, and he only has a few minutes left at most.

None of the other boys in the dorm look over as he leaps down and heads for the stairs, at least, and down in the Common Room there are only two students. One is the redheaded prefect from before, and the other is a first-year girl who looks like she was recently crying. Inwardly, Regulus winces, but he doesn’t have time to linger, and he doesn’t want to risk going back into the passage when someone could see him and find it. Gryffindor’s room is safe by virtue of being unknown; if knowledge of it gets out, he’ll have to move James somewhere else, try to recreate the room’s healing effect on his own, and Regulus is a good wizard but he’s nowhere near Godric Gryffindor’s level.

Still. There’s a minute left at least, so he trots up to the portrait, rears up, and bats at it with a meow, hoping that’s enough to get the prefect’s attention. And, judging by the way his murmur cuts off with a sigh, it is.

“Should I just stand by the portrait and play doorman?” he asks, but he’s already pushing to his feet, nudging his glasses up.

The first-year giggles a little. “My mom’s cat does that,” she says. “She goes in and out a dozen times every morning.”

“Well, this cat’s only going out once,” the prefect says, leaning down to stroke the top of Regulus’s head. “You hear me? Just the once.”

Regulus gives him a dirty look and meows, and he rolls his eyes as the girl laughs. “Fine,” he says, and pushes the portrait open. “Do you think you can sleep now?” he asks the first year, turning away as Regulus leaps for freedom. “Or should we stay up a bit longer?”

“I can sleep,” the girl says determinedly. “Thank you, Percy.”

Regulus doesn’t hear the boy’s reply; the portrait swings closed, and he bolts for the closest empty room, skidding into an old classroom just as the first tingling rush sweeps over him. There's a burn like standing too close to a fire after a day out in the cold, a _wrench_ —

Regulus staggers as his balance shifts, catches himself on a rickety old desk with one hand, and has to take a second just to breathe. The star pendant swings in the air, glittering like silver crystal, and he grimaces and tucks it under the collar of his robes. He’d hoped not to have to use it so soon, but it’s far better than being caught. Better _especially_ than being caught by James's son, Sirius’s godson, Voldemort’s greatest enemy. Harry might not know him, but Regulus doesn’t want to risk anything of the sort. He needs to find Sirius, after all. Nothing is more important right now.

Taking a breath, Regulus rakes his hair back from his face, then settles against the edge of the desk, sorting through his options. Scouring the castle grounds for Sirius on foot sounds like an exercise in futility, and he doesn’t want to leave charms or wards designed to find him anywhere Aurors might stumble across them. But…

If he knows his brother, Sirius won't come to Hogwarts as a human. He’ll keep to his Animagus shape, probably find somewhere secret and secluded to hide himself away. He’s likely looking for Pettigrew, and if that’s the case he won't stay here long, but—long enough for Regulus to find him, with any luck. And not get cursed, with even more luck—Regulus is well aware that Sirius doesn’t look favorably on him, and never has. And though it aches somewhere down in his chest, he’s not going to let it stop him from doing what he can to save his brother.

Another rough breath and Regulus pushes upright, draws the hood of his cloak up over his face. It’s a more sinister look, for certain, but there are too many people here who could possibly know him, teachers who could mark him with a look. Regulus Black is a dead man, and especially here, especially so close to Snape and all the pitfalls he represents, Regulus will do anything to keep it that way.

A Notice-Me-Not Charm is simple enough, and Regulus slips out into the hall, turning possibilities over in his head. Sirius is far better acquainted with Hogwarts’s secret passages and hidden rooms than Regulus is, with the exception of Gryffindor’s Chamber, but Regulus is certain of one place he’ll try to enter. The Gryffindor common room, with Harry beyond it, will be too great a temptation for Sirius to resist, and it will likely be safe enough for Regulus to lay one or two sensing charms there, carefully attuned to his brother in ways an Auror couldn’t match. After that, maybe—

Sharp steps sound, and Regulus ducks back, slips behind a suit of armor even with the charm on himself and presses himself into the shadows, holding his breath.

“—continued tensions,” a stern voice is saying. “Should anything happen, I expect you to report it to the Headmaster _immediately_ , Remus. This is not a matter of personal martyrdom but the school’s continued function.”

“Believe me Pro—Minerva, I do not intend to suffer in silence,” a man answers, wry and tired, and Regulus’s breath tangles in his throat as he stiffens. “But Severus won't do anything.”

A sniff, and Professor McGonagall's tartan robes sweep past Regulus’s hiding place. “I respect Severus highly, given his ability as a Potions Master, but I am aware of his personal shortcomings,” McGonagall says tightly. “Keep it in mind, Remus.”

“Of course. Have a good night, Minerva,” Remus murmurs, and his steps pause, stop. There's a breath, deep and careful, and Regulus shuts his eyes, cursing himself. Notice-Me-Not Charms effect sight more than anything, and—

“Wandering the halls on the first night back?” Remus says, a trace of amusement to the words. He steps around the edge of the suit of armor, eyes flickering across the recessed stone, but even if he can't see Regulus he can doubtless smell him. Werewolves’ senses of smell tend to be very sharp. “I can't say I don’t understand the impulse, but it would be a shame to have to dock points a few hours after the start of the year. Why don’t you cancel the charm and let me walk you back to your dorm?”

Damn. Damn, damn, _damn_. Regulus didn’t account for this. He didn’t realize that Remus Lupin, of all people, would be at Hogwarts, likely to recognize him instantly and with both cunning and keen senses to catch him as he slipped past. Sinking his teeth into his lower lip, he bangs his head back against the stone once, sharp self-recrimination, and then straightens. Debates, for half a second, shoving past Remus and making a run for it, but Remus will doubtless alert someone and raise security, and with how high it already is Regulus can't risk that.

Regulus weighs the odds of manipulation, of pretending to be a student, of pretending to be Peeves. His pendant won't work yet, needs to pull in more magic before he can try for another transformation, and he wouldn’t want to risk it right in front of Remus regardless. He hesitates, torn, and—

“I know you're there,” Remus says, more sternly this time, and reaches out. Regulus ducks on impulse, shifts—

A hand catches his arm, even as Remus's knuckles rap against the stone. The wall behind him turns into an opening, and Regulus yelps as he goes tumbling through, spilling over backwards at a sharp push. He rolls down an inclined ramp, catches himself against a wall with a force that makes his palms sting, and scrambles to his feet, almost strangling himself with his cloak in his haste. His heart is pounding in his chest, as fast as a snitch’s wingbeats, and he draws his wand in an instant.

Remus steps through the doorway, letting it slide closed again behind him, and comes down the ramp, expression firm but not hostile. “If you're hiding from someone in particular, or can't return to your House,” he says kindly, “I would like to know. Allowances can be made, but—”

“You would know all about allowances, wouldn’t you,” Regulus says, low and soft.

Remus pauses, eyes narrowing. The expression throws the scars on his face into relief, makes his stance somehow firmer, more foreboding. “I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure what you mean,” he says, still easygoing, but his eyes don’t waver. He doesn’t so much as blink.

Definitely not enough of a reaction to give Regulus time to get away. He breathes out, slides back, but he doesn’t know this room, isn't sure there's any way out beyond the door he fell through, and werewolves have funny reactions to curses even if he did want to try to bolt.

Not even two hours being back at Hogwarts and he’s been forced into this position. Regulus closes his eyes and curses Sirius all over again. Damn him for escaping before Regulus could clear his name.

“Being as you are,” Regulus clarifies, and straightens. He keeps a hold of his wand, but cancels the charm, and Remus stiffens, falls back a step. His own wand is suddenly in his hand, but Regulus drops his own, raises his hands with his palms out, and says, “Peace.”

Remus looks him over, narrow and wary, and then says, “Remove your hood.”

Regulus inclines his head in agreement, then slowly, carefully folds the fabric back. He has to swallow at the light, the feeling of exposure, the _vulnerability_ , but—there's no way out of here without at least part of the truth, as much as he hates it. Remus isn't the worst person he could tell, either, by virtue of his own secrets. Easy blackmail or solidarity, depending on how this goes.

“Lupin,” he offers quietly. “Congratulations on your gainful employment. You’ll have to forgive me for not sending a card.”

Remus's eyes go wide, and his raised wand dips. “You—” he starts, and then stops short, gaze sweeping from Regulus’s head to his toes and back up again. He swallows, hesitates, and then says with disbelief, “ _Regulus_? But—Sirius was sure you _died_.”

Not surprising. Logical, even—Regulus charmed the family tree to show his death, and their mother would have made the knowledge public. Kreacher, too, would have said that Regulus was dead if Sirius ever thought to summon him, not that that was likely.

“I couldn’t—if _anyone_ knew, the Dark Lord would have—” It’s too close to a plea, too plaintive, and Regulus chokes down the rest of the words.

But Remus's mouth is tightening, his eyes darkening, and he’s drawing himself up, wand aimed right at Regulus’s throat. “Were you the one,” he asks, low, harsh. “Were _you_ the one that convinced Sirius to turn traitor? Were _you_ the reason he betrayed James, Regulus?”

For a breathless, bewildering moment Regulus can't comprehend the accusation, can't pick apart the words. He stares at Remus, entirely caught off guard, and can't think of a single thing to say in response. He’d known there were tensions between Remus and Sirius, knew there had to be for Remus to make any semblance of believing the accusations, but—

“And here I thought you were the smart one,” he finally says, and the words rasp like dragonhide in his throat.

Remus's mouth thins into a flat line, and he advances a step, like a threat. “Don’t deny who you served,” he warns. “Don’t you dare, Regulus. I heard all the whispers, I know _exactly_ when you took his mark.”

Guilt and anger in equal parts sting at Regulus’s chest, and he tries not to bristle visibly, can't help but bare his teeth. “I _don’t_ deny it,” he retorts. “I _can't_. But I had nothing to do with Sirius after he left home! I didn’t even speak to him, Remus! He reserved that for his _friends_.” He spits the word, but it tastes bitter and angry on his tongue. Remus didn’t defend Sirius, didn’t even try. Regulus has always known that Peter was a traitor to James and Sirius, but—what if he wasn’t the only one?

It’s a thought Regulus has had before, and he still hates it just as much as he ever did.

To his surprise, though, it’s a dark regret that flickers across Remus's face. “I don’t know that anything I can say will matter now, after everything,” he says hoarsely, “but he regretted leaving you behind.”

Regulus freezes, can't force himself to move so much as a muscle. Can't even breathe, and it _aches_ , the impact of those words. Bright Sirius, the most brilliant star, blazing a way forward and leaving scorched earth in his path, and there was never any room beside him for a paler, misnamed star like Regulus. Regulus had only thought for a brief moment that Sirius might take him with him when he fled Grimmauld Place, but—

Stupidity, and Regulus prides himself on many things, with intelligence highest among them, but even he has his momentary failings.

“You're right, Lupin,” he says, harsh in his mouth. “It doesn’t matter.”

Remus's answering smile is wry, full of old regrets. “I thought the dead did nothing but dwell on the past,” he says, like it’s a joke.

“Not as dead as I would have wished, several times over,” Regulus admits. “The Dark Lord—he was so _angry_ , but—”

Remus's gaze flickers down to his left arm, then back up to his face. “But you left him,” he says softly.

“I couldn’t stay.” Regulus stretches out a hand, and that’s a plea too, something weak and cringing, but he can’t help it. so many years, so much running, so much _secrecy_. Regulus can count the number of people who know of his continued existence on one hand, even adding Remus to their number. “Lupin, _please_ , no one knows and no one can. I'm simply here to see that nothing happens to James's son.”

Finally, finally, the line of Remus's mouth softens. “You always did have a soft spot for James,” he says, as if he’s only just now recalling that. “It always made Sirius happy.”

 _Don’t look so grim when you say his name,_ Regulus wants to tell him. _Stop thinking him a **traitor**_. But there's too much of a risk in that, so he holds his tongue, looks away.

“I've been trying to keep the Dark Lord from returning,” he says. “I think—he plans to return to full life, and I won't let him. Our world still hasn’t recovered from the last war.”

Remus looks tired, drawn. He rubs a hand over his face, then says, “Very altruistic for a Slytherin., Regulus.”

“Self-preservation,” Regulus counters, because it’s true enough. “If he learns I left him, my life will be both very short and very painful.”

It will also mean the end of Regulus’s attempt to heal James, and Regulus can't allow that. Remus was James's friend, Sirius’s friend, but if he proves himself a threat Regulus will do whatever he must to remove him from play.

Remus half-turns, glancing back at the door, and frowns. “I have to start my patrol,” he says. “Regulus, I need—just come to my office tomorrow, please.”

Regulus hesitates, but the invitation is tempting. He hasn’t—he has no idea if Remus is anything close to an ally, or even anything like _not an enemy_ , but if he’s here, if Dumbledore hired him and keeps him so close, if the mention of protecting Harry is enough to sway him—

“It will be late,” he warns, because he won't risk sneaking through the castle when there are people around, and he doesn’t want to give away all of his abilities just yet.

“That’s fine,” Remus agrees. He pauses, looking Regulus over again, and then steps forward, reaching out. Regulus stiffens on instinct, but Remus's hand simply settles on his shoulder, squeezing. “I'm glad you're alive, Regulus,” he says quietly, and turns. The doorway opens for him automatically, and over his shoulder he says, “Severus and Aurora are patrolling the first story, but they planned to start at the far end of the castle.”

There's a side door onto the grounds close to the base of the tower, Regulus knows. He should be able to set the wards on the common room portrait and still get out in time if he hurries. With a nod of thanks, he straightens, and as soon as the worn hem of Remus's robe is past the suit of armor Regulus snatches up his wand and ducks after him, immediately picking up a run as he recasts the Notice-Me-Not Charm.

There's no way back down through the tapestry door in the Gryffindor common room, only one way out of Gryffindor’s secret chamber, but that’s fine; Regulus needs to lay wards to watch for Sirius, light ones, simple ones, attuned to a dog instead of a man. If Regulus knows his brother, Sirius will come from the direction of Hogsmeade, maybe play as if he’s a friendly stray to slip through the village. And—the Shrieking Shack is in that direction, isn't it? Surely that would be a familiar enough place for Sirius to hide. There or in the Forbidden Forest, and the Shrieking Shack is closer to the castle. Sirius might only linger for a short time before he goes gallivanting off to find Pettigrew and get himself killed by Aurors, but—it will be enough.

It has to be enough.

 

 

By the time Regulus, dripping wet and shivering, hauls himself up the first flight of stairs towards Gryffindor’s chamber, it’s close to midnight, and there's a desperate, pervasive chill that’s settled in his bones. The images swimming behind his eyes are all rotted hands, dragging him down into darkness, depthless water closing over his head, and he _hate_ it with every breath that shudders out of his lungs.

 _Dementors_. Of course the Ministry would guard the _school_ with _Dementors_ , Regulus thinks, and he’s trembling so hard that he nearly takes the door his Point Me spell directs him towards. It’s only at the last moment, his hand almost on the knob, that he remembers what happened the first time he tried that, and he recoils like the knob is seeping poison. The other door, the one not indicated by his spell, is the only door that will take him where he needs to go; the other leads to the heart of the Forbidden Forest, and closes behind him with no way back except to walk through miles of darkened forest. A quick getaway, but otherwise about as dangerous as tugging on a dragon’s tail.

Slowly, carefully, Regulus retreats from the door, stumbles back into the other. The wood feels slightly less than solid under his shoulder, but then, Regulus has never pressed himself up against it before; it’s entirely possible that it always feels like this, and he’s simply never had cause to learn before. Still, the knob turns under his hand, and that’s all he cares about. He stumbles through, almost falling headlong into the stone ledge, but manages to miss it at the last moment.

Hitting the floor on his knees, he buries his face in his hands, gritting his teeth, and tries to get his shivers under control. Remembers, belatedly, that he hasn’t announced himself, and the room is dark, getting darker. Hastily, with clumsy hands, he yanks back his hood and rasps, “I am Regulus Arcturus Black, and I come with peace in my heart and a plea for shelter on my tongue.”

Instantly, as if it were waiting for the words, the room brightens, the lamps coming to life. The great stone lion is already sitting up, watching with fire-bright eyes, and Regulus has to swallow at the glitter of light off its long claws, the lazily predatory weight to its gaze. He doesn’t normally forget the room’s rules, but he’s just—

Just shaken. Just a _coward_.

“Forgive me,” he whispers to the lion, and manages to get his feet underneath himself. He hauls himself up, clinging to the ledge, and only after a moment dares to let go and take a staggering step forward. The stream is almost too much, nearly undoes him as he trips across the gap, but he catches himself on his hands and knees on the other side and crawls the last few feet to fall against James's casket.

How his mother would rail to see him now, he thinks, and can't help the ragged laugh that breaks from his throat. Desperate, hunted, _idiotic_ —hardly the noble prince of the House of Black that she required, but—

Dementors suck all the joy and brightness from the world, and Regulus has had precious little of that since Sirius ran away from home.

He digs his fingers into the stone of the casket’s base, then hauls himself up again, leaning over the glass. Clear, already, and he doesn’t know if it’s the lion’s doing or if the room simply answered his need.

Either way, the sight of James is a balm, even pale and still, and Regulus closes his eyes, thinks of that moment in the rubble at Godric’s Hollow. Thinks of checking for a pulse, not expecting to find one after Lily’s lifeless body, and then—

A heartbeat, weak and stuttering, but _there_.

Regulus lets out a long breath, slow, careful. He slides back to the ground, turning to brace his back against the casket, and he still feels a little like he’s drowning, pulled down by cold hands, but air comes more easily now, more readily.

He managed to set the wards before the Dementors started their rounds. If Sirius enters the Shrieking Shack or passes into Hogwarts though the Hogsmeade entrance, Regulus will know and be able to find him. That’s the first half of his task done, and maybe it’s a slim, small victory, but at this point Regulus has learned to value those as much as the large ones.

He saw Harry, too, he thinks, closing his eyes. Nothing in him meant to, but—he caught a glimpse of the boy, that night in Godric’s Hollow. Had checked him, and then left him in order to find his parents, but Regulus remembers. He’s changed, vastly, in that time, and even if it’s to be expected it’s something shocking to see.

Harry looks like James, with Lily’s eyes, and it’s so very bittersweet to see.

Rubbing his forehead, Regulus swallows, sighs. Lets himself ease back, just a little, and relax against the sturdy stone. He’s _tired_ , so very tired, and he knows the cure for a Dementor’s presence but he hasn’t ever carried chocolate with him. Not useful enough, when he normally has the sense to avoid Dementors entirely. It seems he’s going to have to change that if he wants to spend any time on the grounds here, though.

Merlin, he hates Dementors.

“You idiot, Siri,” he mutters, and he should get up, dry his robes, at least wrap his robe around himself and lie down to sleep, but it seems like far too much effort to even _consider_ those things right now. “I'm going to get you back for this.”

It’s possible he says something else after that, but he’s too tired to register it, and a moment later he’s drifting up into sleep and he doesn’t care at all.

 

 

“Well now,” a voice murmurs, but the form beside the healing chamber doesn’t stir. “This looks like an enterprising young man indeed.”

The lion turns its head, a breath like a huff of laughter escaping it, and the pale form waves a hand. “Oh, hush, yes, I'm aware. But if he found his way here, even _you_ can't object.”

The lion doesn’t respond, but the figure doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer. He crouches down, one insubstantial hand hovering over Regulus’s cloak, and a frown crosses his face.

“Drained of joy, like a leech was at him,” he murmurs, and a twist of his hand conjures a length of applewood, supple and strong. A flick of the wand dries Regulus’s robes, heats the air around him, and invisible hands shift him down to lie beside the chamber rather than sprawl uncomfortably against it. Another careless pass conjures a thick blanket out of nothing to fall over him, and the figure smiles, rises. He brushes off the knees of his trousers, then glances at the still form inside the chamber with a light hum.

“Well, well. This is certainly interesting,” he murmurs, and taps one knuckle lightly against the glass. Golden runes bloom in careful sequence, and he hums, then glances back down at Regulus. “You’ve certainly done your homework, my friend. But…perhaps this requires a defter touch than a simple healing sleep can provide.”

The lion makes a soft sound, like the roll of smooth stones along a riverbed, and lies down, resting its nose against the glass. Ruby light shimmers across its marble body, and the figure tips his head.

“I think that’s good enough to start with,” he murmurs, and under the press of his hands the runes shine, shift, start to run across the glass in a steady stream.

Beneath the bright glow, under a pane of glass, James takes his first full breath in twelve years, and the figure smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **If you follow me on Tumblr and have been wondering about the recent disappearance of my blog** , it got caught up in Tumblr's new purge of blogs with lots of outside links. The staff has been contacted, and hopefully it will be restored, but since they likely have a backlog of such requests it might take a week or two. Sorry for any worries!

_The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it. ~Henry David Thoreau_

* * *

 

A line of unexpected heat down his side startles Regulus awake, and he’s scrambling to his feet before he even has his eyes open, wand in hand and heart pounding in his chest. Wildly, he spins—

Gryffindor’s chamber brightens, warms. The marble lion blinks at him, long and slow, and Regulus blinks back, caught off guard. He hasn’t—he’s never spent more than an hour or two in this room, and waking up here is startling, almost unnerving. The room doesn’t seem to object to his presence, though; there's no sense of hostility in the air, and if anything it feels…softer than usual. Kinder, maybe, and more welcoming.

The pulse of heat comes again, sudden enough to make Regulus startle, but he’s close enough to conscious to finally recognize what it is. With a curse, he sinks back down to the floor even as he digs in his pocket, braces his back against the casket, and pulls a mirror the size of his palm out of his robes. The silver frame is shining, a low light like the moon, and the surface ripples with green. There's only one thing it could be, and Regulus strangles a groan, shoves his tangled hair back from his face, and answers the call.

“Where _were_ you?” is the very first thing he hears, sharply annoyed. “I called you three times last night.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “I was asleep,” he says. “And before that I was busy.”

Draco pulls a very definite face. Regulus can just make out the darkness of the Slytherin dorm behind him, the green velvet of the hangings pulled shut. The exposure itches at Regulus’s skin, but Draco knows Silencing Charms, and he knows that Regulus can't be exposed. “Are you meeting contacts?” he demands. “ _I'm_ your contact. I need to know if other people are undermining my position.”

Regulus snorts, but he can't help the faint smile that pulls at his lips. “You're only my contact for getting into your father’s library,” he counters. “And you're only that much because I had an off day.”

“You tripped four alarms and a burglar trap from the 1700’s when you were trying to sneak in,” Draco says, more smugly than is warranted. “You're just lucky Mother and Father were in Paris and I was the one who heard them.”

“I _let_ you catch me,” Regulus retorts, even though Draco is entirely correct.

The roll of Draco's eyes says precisely what he thinks of that statement. “Where are you?” he asks instead, expression screwing up as he squints past Regulus’s face. “Are you in a catacomb somewhere? What were you so busy with that you had to go to sleep so early?”

“I had some wards to lay,” Regulus says, and rubs at his temple. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for class?”

Draco is enough of a Slytherin to catch the non-answer, but he’s also enough of a teenage boy that talking about his own life is a sufficient distraction from anything else. “Blaise is hogging the bathroom,” he reports disgustedly. “I’m tired of listening to him complain about his seventh stepfather, so I'm waiting for him to finish.”

Someday, Regulus is going to hunt down Madam Zabini and get her to tell him her secrets. The ability to murder six wealthy husbands in the span of less than twenty years and make all six deaths look like believable accidents is something that seems good to have, just in case.

“The Zabini were neutral in the last war,” he says, noncommittal, but it makes Draco give him a dark look.

“Yes, well, given Blaise's opinion of my father, they're still taking the same stance,” he says, and it’s faintly bitter but also resigned. “And Theo…”

He doesn’t finish, but Regulus has met the older Nott. He wouldn’t blame Theodore for staying as far from any of his interests as humanly possible.

“Draco, if you can build connections with them—” he starts quietly.

“Mother and Father are going to Venice for Christmas this year,” Draco interrupts pointedly. “But I told them I wanted to stay behind. Are you coming to the Manor?”

Regulus freezes, swallows. His free hand closes into a fist, and he hesitates. Dangerous, so dangerous a choice, but. He’s been running for so long, and the stolen moments at Malfoy Manor are about the only times he’s afforded a soft bed, a place to sleep that’s reasonably secure, company that knows his name. Draco has to know how dangerous it is, but he keeps asking, and Regulus isn't clever enough to say no.

“If you don’t get into any fights with Harry this year, I’ll consider it,” he manages.

Draco makes a face, falling back against his pillows in a dramatic gesture Regulus most certainly doesn’t recognize from his own teenage years. “But I have a brilliant plan,” he protests. “The Dementors made him _faint_ —”

Regulus’s hands shake, hard enough that the mirror’s image wavers. “Draco,” he says, and it comes out harsh, rough in his throat. “ _I_ almost faint from Dementors.”

There's a startled pause, and Draco goes quiet. Regulus doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to remember cold hands pulling him beneath the water, but for a moment it’s all he can think of, the only thing he can see, and he thinks about how he’ll have to leave the chamber eventually, go back out onto the grounds and face the Dementors guarding the castle, and his stomach turns like he’s going to be sick.

“Yes, but you have a _reason_ ,” Draco says, and that’s Lucius’s stubbornness in every line of his face.

“If I had had Voldemort try to murder me when I was a year old, and had then faced him twice, I would have even _more_ of a reason,” Regulus says, and rubs his forehead. “Draco—”

“It can't be _that_ bad, he’s just—”

“ _Draco_.”

The word is almost a shout, and Draco stops short. His mouth tightens, and he looks away.

“Fine.” It’s short, sharp. “No tormenting Potter, even though the opportunity is _right there_ and doesn’t deserve to be passed up.”

Regulus knows Draco well enough to take that for the gracious capitulation it is. “Thank you,” he says, relieved.

“But you _have_ to come for Christmas,” Draco insists, jumping on the idea without pause. “Mother and Father are going to be gone, and I hate being in the house with just the house elves, so if you don’t come I’ll just go back to Hogwarts and put newt eyes in Potter's socks.”

“That would be a trick,” Regulus says dryly, but he tips his head. “No fights with Potter and I’ll come.”

Draco makes a face, but doesn’t argue. “Someday you're going to have to tell me why you adore Potter the same way everyone else on this bloody planet does,” he complains.

“And someday you're going to have to stop being a brat, but I don’t think either one of us is holding our breath,” Regulus tells him, largely for the offended look it earns him.

“If I'm a brat, I'm one you need for information,” Draco says crossly. “That makes me _valuable_.”

And there's nothing a Malfoy appreciates more than being valuable. Regulus rolls his eyes, uncaring whether Draco can see, and rubs his throat; he rarely talks to people at all, and extended conversations with Draco are about the only time he says more than a few words. It doesn’t quite ache, but it feels like using muscles that are nearly atrophied.

“You’ll be more valuable if you help me,” he says, and Draco gives him a narrow, suspicious look.

“Help you,” he repeats, not quite a question.

Regulus inclines his head. “You heard about Sirius?” he asks quietly.

“Mother’s been furious,” Draco confirms without hesitation. “She says he’s dragging the Black name through the mud and ruining the family’s reputation.”

Of course that would be Narcissa’s worry. Regulus grimaces, but meets Draco's eyes and says, “He’s going to be after Harry.”

“Well, _obviously_ ,” Draco says witheringly, pique at anything related to Harry receiving attention rising sharply. Regulus just raises a brow and waits him out; it takes a few moments, but Draco _is_ a Slytherin, and after a minute his brain starts working again, even through the cloud of indignation. Grey eyes widen, and Draco pulls back a little, horror rising. “You think he’s coming _here_?” he hisses. “To _Hogwarts_?”

“Almost certainly,” Regulus says, keeps his voice soft; he can't push too hard, because Draco has a streak of recklessness in him that’s all Black, and Regulus will never forgive himself if he gets his little cousin killed. But Draco is useful, too, and more exposure to Harry can't be a bad thing for him. There are too many similarities, too many reflections of Regulus’s own childhood in Draco. He’ll never admit to being glad that Draco, all of eight, caught him attempting to raid Lucius’s library, and was then intrigued by the thought of a previously-dead cousin coming back to life. But he is, because Lucius is still unrepentant about following Voldemort, and Narcissa as well. They were raising Draco to follow their steps along the Dark Lord’s path, and Regulus still can't tell if he’s been able to reach his little cousin but at least he’s _trying_.

If Draco had continued down his path, unaware, there was every chance he would have shared Regulus’s fate, without even a person like Kreacher to save him at the last moment.

Harry, though, is everything Draco isn't, and while their relationship isn't anything like Regulus’s relationship with James, it’s still a good influence. It’s still a reminder that the Dark Lord isn't the only authority, that he can be fought, and Regulus will take any chance he can to shove Draco even vaguely closer to Harry's realm of influence. It’s had little success so far, but…Draco is maturing. Slowly, maybe, painstakingly, but it’s there. Regulus has seen the changes. A little more kindness, a pause before his cruelty, but it’s enough. It’s progress. At this point, Regulus is willing to take what he can get.

It’s proof of the change that Draco looks faintly disturbed by the idea, rather than smugly gleeful—which, to Regulus’s shame, would likely have been his reaction to the news that a purported mass murderer was coming to kill one of his enemies in school. “Just to kill Potter?” he asks, and swallows visibly. “What about—my father says he was under the Imperious Curse—”

Were Sirius truly a servant of the Dark Lord, Draco might have cause to worry; Death Eaters like Barty certainly wouldn’t hesitate to make a statement by killing the family of a supposed traitor. “I think you’ll be all right,” is all Regulus can say, though, because he hasn’t told a single soul that Sirius is innocent. Doesn’t dare, really, when he has no idea where Pettigrew scurried off to, what he might catch wind of. The traitor has already hidden himself away well enough that Regulus hasn’t been able to find him with more than a decade of searching; if he goes any deeper underground, Regulus won't have even half a hope.

The words don’t seem to do much to comfort Draco. He grimaces, looking away, and Regulus feels himself soften a little. Draco is only thirteen, but he’s heard stories of the last war, met a few of the more dangerous Death Eaters. Maybe not Bellatrix, but Macnair and Nott, at the very least. Either of them would be more than enough to scare a child, especially one caught between Regulus’s half-mad desperation and Lucius’s cold superiority.

“Draco,” he says quietly, and then when Draco keeps looking towards the hangings he says more firmly, “ _Draco_. If there's ever a need, I’ll come immediately. All you need to do is call me.”

That certainly gets a reaction. Draco jerks around, eyes widening and demands, “You’d come to _Hogwarts_? Just because I thought it was dangerous?”

It would rather defeat the purpose to tell Draco he’s at Hogwarts right now, but at least it means that Regulus will be closer if Draco really does need him. He meets Draco's eyes with as much reassurance in his expression as he can muster, and says, “Immediately.”

Draco's expression twists, and he looks down. The promise hangs heavy between them, and Regulus takes a breath, tries to push through the weight of it. “After all,” he says, makes it almost as serious in sound even though he doesn’t mean it that way, “how else am I supposed to get into your father’s library?”

Draco snorts, but at least he looks up, meets Regulus’s eyes again. “The house elves worship you,” he says, and he’s clearly trying for derisive, but it falls short. “They’d let you in no matter what.”

 _They like you more now, too,_ Regulus doesn’t say. That’s part of the work in progress, after all. “Let me right into one of the booby traps,” he says dryly, and Draco finally smiles again.

“Probably,” he agrees archly, and glances up, towards the hangings. “I think Blaise finally surrendered the bathroom,” he says, raising a brow.

Regulus well remembers the competition for space in the dorm bathroom. “Willingly?” he asks.

Draco's smirk says everything. “Theo got impatient.”

Well, hopefully the Zabini boy is all in one piece. Regulus is rather hanging his hopes on Blaise being a more neutral influence in Draco's life, after all. The Crabbe and Goyle boys are loyal, but they’re also followers. Draco needs someone to push him, and keep pushing.

“Keep your eyes open and your head down, Draco,” he warns quietly. “And avoid the Dementors. Avoid anything to _do_ with them. Please.” Because even if Sirius isn't a threat, Azkaban’s guards most certainly are.

Draco pauses, watching him carefully, but he nods a moment later. “They're so tasteless anyway,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Those old cloaks are _horrid_.”

He’s most definitely Narcissa’s son. Regulus smiles faintly, touching the edge of the mirror, and says, “Goodbye, Draco.”

“I’ll see you for Christmas,” Draco informs him, and ends the call before Regulus can get another word in.

Too late, Regulus sighs in irritation, but he sweeps a hand over the mirror’s surface and tucks it back into a pocket, resigned. It is…maybe not the worst possibility, though he’ll hold out judgement until Christmas is actually over. He’s been wanting to check some of Lucius’s older spell books, though, and maybe see if he has any manticore’s blood—Regulus’s usual supplier got raided by the Ministry and promptly decided to sell cut flowers instead of banned substances. Good for his sense of self-preservation, but irritating when Regulus is going to have to find another trustworthy source for such things.

Hopefully, _hopefully_ , Draco will also heed Regulus’s unspoken request and keep an eye on Harry. Regulus will be close, at least until he finds Sirius, but he can't be everywhere, and he certainly can't get as close to Harry as Draco. Not unless he uses the pendant, and he’d prefer to save that for emergencies—the time it takes to recharge is eternally inconvenient. It’s more versatile than an Animagus transformation, though, and he can't be forced back to human form by a spell, so the benefits justify the downsides.

Regulus touches one of the points, then breathes out, burying his face in his hands as he tries to think. He has the wards laid, he has everything set to catch Sirius as soon as he appears, and until that point…

Slumping back against the casket, he cranes his head, looking up at the massive stone lion. “I suppose it’s you and me now,” he tells it.

The lion blinks sliver-and-ruby eyes at him, long and slow, and doesn’t otherwise react.

“Right,” Regulus mutters, and grimaces. His throat feels strained, though that’s probably to be expected. He doesn’t talk to Draco often, but when he does it’s usually more talking than he tends to do in a week on the run. He’s also hungry, a little stiff from sleeping on the stone, and—

The crumpled blanket catches his eye.

It’s nothing Regulus brought, nothing he’s ever seen before. Thick, warm, a deep red that almost looks black where it’s shadowed, and Regulus warily reaches out to touch it. It’s just a blanket, though, doesn’t try to leap up and eat him, and when he tugs it towards him there's no maker’s mark.

“Did you make this?” he asks the lion, and the construct closes its eyes like it’s tired of his stupid questions. Regulus doesn’t quite make a face, but he rolls his eyes a little, hesitates, and then carefully folds the blanket and sets it aside. Maybe conjuring blankets for anyone sleeping here is a function of the room; Regulus has never spent the night here before, so he wouldn’t know.

His stomach growls, a reminder that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and Regulus sighs. He needs food, and if he’s going to be staying close to Hogwarts, he definitely needs some chocolate. There are too many Dementors here to consider it a luxury, and even if he doesn’t have much gold, it’s worth spending it on this. Hogsmeade gets plenty of strange visitors, being one of the few remaining wizard-only villages, so he likely won't raise too many brows buying it, either.

Honeydukes is going to have its best year in decades, with so many Dementors around, Regulus thinks with a breath of amusement. He pushes to his feet, checking his wand, the mirror, his pendant, and then glancing down at the casket. It’s less frosted over, and when Regulus touches a fingertip to its surface it comes clear in an instant, like frost dissolving under the sun. Golden runes flicker, too swift for Regulus to read them, but he’s distracted anyway; James's face is visible beneath the glass, still and perfect, and Regulus has to swallow at the sight of him. Older, even having spent the last twelve years asleep; there's a hint of grey near his temples, and Regulus touches the glass above it like he wants to touch James's actual hair.

“Your son looks just like you,” he whispers, and just for a moment he imagines what would have happened if he’d been able to get Harry in time, if he’d been able to get James stabilized more quickly and made it back to Godric’s Hollow before Hagrid appeared. It’s madness; Regulus was on the run, a dead man with no home and no support. There's no possible way he could have ever taken care of a child in that situation, but—

But Harry looks like James, and he looks like Lily too. Regulus knows nothing about him except the fact that he’s kind to cats, and yet he can't help but picture it. Harry, raised by another wizard willing to tell him about his father, not in the Muggle world but the wizarding one. Someone who understood in every way the terror of Voldemort, the carelessly destructive hate in him.

It’s a fairy tale. It’s a momentary madness, because it never would have happened. However Harry grew up, it’s far better than he would have grown up with Regulus, never in the same place for more than a week, running for his life every moment of every day. Harry alone is target enough for Voldemort, but add in Regulus, add in Horcruxes stolen out from beneath the Dark Lord’s nose—

They would have been hunted down immediately, ruthlessly. However few followers Voldemort has left, that would have been enough to draw them out in full force.

“I'm sorry I couldn’t do more,” he tells James, and means it. He couldn’t save Lily, and he couldn’t take care of Harry. Had wanted to, always, because James loved both of them, and Regulus has only ever wanted James to have what makes him happy. He liked Lily, too; she was fierce, and she was sweet, and her laugh was beautiful. She’d been kind to him at Hogwarts, and even though Regulus kept his distance, knowing he should be disgusted by a Muggleborn girl claiming the position of prefect and the Head Girl—

Lily was kind, and she liked Potions, and she laughed at Regulus’s sharp-tongued comments. She was in love with James, too, and James loved her. It _hurt_ , seeing them, but James was happy, and Regulus could be content with that. Could be happy enough, because he was Sirius’s little brother and a Slytherin and the Slytherin Seeker, and he’d _known_ his chances of James looking at him as anything else. So he’d accepted it, and kept moving, and let himself like Lily even though she had what he wanted. And he _did_ like her, more than he’d ever expected to.

When he’d touched Lily’s throat, when he’d searched for a pulse and found nothing, it had felt like losing a friend.

With a ragged breath, Regulus pulls his hand away, and he wishes with an ache as sharp as broken glass that James would open his eyes, look up at him. Twelve years of waiting, of trying to keep him alive, and even now there's no sign beyond the faint rise and fall of James's chest that it’s worked.

Regulus turns aside, forces himself to step away from the casket and keep moving. He needs food and chocolate, and to get back to his research on Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem, because the odds that Voldemort made it into a Horcrux the same way he did Slytherin’s locket and Hufflepuff’s cup are exceedingly high. If Regulus can find any hints as to its whereabouts while he waits for Sirius to appear, all the better.

He straightens his cloak with a tug, then flips his hood up to cover his face. A Tempus charm shows that it’s after the start of classes, so the Gryffindor common room should be safe enough to sneak through with a concealment charm. The passage under the Whomping Willow will get him to the Shrieking Shack, and from there it’s a short ways to Hogsmeade. Tonight, after night falls, he’ll slip back to the castle to meet Lupin, and then to the library, to see what information on the diadem might be lurking in the Restricted Section.

This is _utterly_ reckless, Regulus thinks with a grimace. Being here like this—without much of a plan, with too much exposure, with no good way to keep himself entirely hidden—is _awful_ , and he’s going to take it out of Sirius’s hide the second his idiot brother shows himself.

 

 

Because he has _class_ , Draco vacates the bathroom while Theo is still hogging the nicest shower, and graciously allows Greg and Vincent to take his place. Blaise is checking his textbooks, looking bored, and pointedly ignoring the _Monster Book of Monsters_ as it wiggles and snaps, held shut by a tightly knotted scarf.

“No luck with that one, either?” Draco asks, not quite curious, and pulls out his robes.

Blaise makes a derisive sound without looking up. “My mother refused to tell me how to open it,” he says. “She thought figuring it out would be _character-building_.”

Draco is fairly certain that Madam Zabini doesn’t quite grasp the meaning of the phrase, but her newest husband is some sort of self-help lecturer. Cleary she’s making an attempt—it will give her something nice to speak about at his inevitable funeral, at the very least.

The book being as it is, Draco is hoping they’ll be excused from the summer reading, if Hagrid even thought to assign any; Draco honestly didn’t even check. His mother hadn’t wanted him t take the class to begin with, and even less so when she found out about the new teacher, but Draco was hardly about to suffer through _Muggle Studies_ instead. He’d argued her down, told her it would be an easy pass, and she’d reluctantly agreed.

“You know we likely have Care of Magical Creatures with the Gryffindors,” Blaise says, like it doesn’t matter anything to him.

Draco makes a face, though mostly where Blaise can't see it. “A whole hour of watching the oaf fawn over Potter,” he mutters, but—

The mirror is on his nightstand, and Draco can't help but steal a glance at it. Without the activation phrase, it’s blank, innocuous, but all Draco can think of is Regulus’s worn face, older than it should be with stress and hunger and fear. _You’ll be more valuable if you help me_ , and he hadn’t said how, but Draco can read between the lines. The next topic was Sirius Back coming after Potter, and Draco would happily see Potter harried and hunted and pushed right out of school, but death is…permanent. And if Potter falls into Black’s hands, it won't just be death. It will likely be torture. Draco is well aware of what his aunt did to the Longbottoms, remembers his parents’ casual dismissal of the crime, and the family as blood traitors, but if Bellatrix went that far—

The thought of Potter being tortured should make him feel pleased, or at least smug, but it doesn’t.

Not for anyone other than his cousin would Draco even _consider_ keeping an eye on Potter, but Regulus asked him. Well, more or less.

“I've decided,” he says haughtily, pulling on his robes. “The best way to get to Potter.”

Blaise glances up, one brow rising. “The Dementor plan?” he asks dryly. “You know you're going to have to wait until after our match, right? Slytherin plays Gryffindor first, and no matter how many times you’ve missed the Snitch, we still need you on your broom.”

Draco gives him a poisonous look. “Not the Dementor plan,” he retorts. “I'm going to _ignore_ him al year. He’ll have a _fit_.”

Blaise's other brow rises to join the first, and he pauses. “That’s actually a good idea,” he says thoughtfully, and when Draco makes an indignant sound he’s summarily ignored. “It’s one of your best, I think.”

“All of my ideas are brilliant,” Draco says without much conviction, because he remembers the snake at the Dueling Club. That wasn’t _precisely_ brilliant. Possibly one or two other plans weren’t either.

Blaise's look is speaking, but he keeps his mouth shut. Draco would be grateful, except it feels more like losing the argument than it would if Blaise actually responded, and he’s left stewing as he straightens his robes and checks his bookbag.

Regulus had better appreciate his sacrifice. He was looking _forward_ to sparring with Potter all year, and having to protect him instead is a crime of the highest order.


	4. Chapter 4

_It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog. ~Mark Twain_

* * *

 

Regulus spent most of his childhood as an early riser, up with the sun or even before it, eternally aggravating to an older brother who would far rather sleep until noon than so much as crack an eyelid at dawn. It’s still a habit, at least enough of one to rouse Regulus in the early hours no matter when he went to sleep, but years hunting through the underbelly of the magical world has made him reluctantly nocturnal. Most people trying to stay beyond the notice of society keep out of the daylight, after all, and they’re who Regulus does most of his business with these days. That’s who he _is_ , these days.

It still feels unnatural, though, to just be venturing out when the sun is already past its highest point and the shadows are stretching long. Hogsmeade is busy enough still that Regulus in his cloak can pass through largely unnoticed, but it’s an end-of-day sort of bustle, with people heading home and their attention focused elsewhere. They don’t bother with second glances, and Regulus is grateful for it as he slips into Honeydukes, hood pulled firmly down over his face. There’s a crowd, not schoolchildren and mothers but adults, haggard-looking and grim, and Regulus wants to be amused at their shared plight, but—everyone hates Dementors. Everyone suffers in their presence, even if the creatures are kept to the edges of the school.

“Damn the Minister,” one woman murmurs to her companion, and the second woman snorts.

“Didn’t want to pay the Aurors overtime,” she agrees cynically, and folds her arms over her chest, eyeing Regulus with cool disinterest as he takes him place in line with several bars of chocolate. “I don’t have a child in the school, but I can’t imagine the parents would pick Dementors over Aurors for guarding their spawn.”

“They’ve done nothing about Azkaban, have they?” the first woman asks sourly. “That one Minister wanted to close it down, but they shut him up right quick.”

Regulus looks away, fingers tightening faintly on his chocolate. He doesn’t want to think about how Sirius must have suffered, spending twelve years in Azkaban despite his innocence. The fact that he broke out is unbelievable, but also unsurprising in light of that, and Regulus doesn’t resent him his freedom, regardless of how inconvenient in terms of his own plans. Passing encounters with the Dementors are enough to turn Regulus into a trembling ball of cold terror; he can’t even begin to image prolonged, forced proximity with them.

If Peter Pettigrew was even slightly easier to find, Regulus would have handed him over to the DMLE _years_ ago, giftwrapped and bound up with a big red bow. He’s never _truly_ wanted his brother to suffer, regardless of moments of childhood anger and the burning, tearing resentment he felt in those first few months after Sirius ran away from home. Ran _to_ home, really—the Potters were far more his family than the Blacks, as much as Regulus hates to acknowledge that.

Still, there’s nothing in Regulus that could have left Sirius rotting in Azkaban if there was any alternative. He has plans, circumstantial evidence, clues and missteps on the part of the Aurors, but without Pettigrew it’s worthless, wild conspiracy and the ravings of a man who should be dead. He’s looked for so long, looked so hard, but even with the doors opened by the mark on his left arm, hated as it is, there’s been no trace of Pettigrew anywhere. It’s as if he’s fallen off the edge of the earth, and there’s nothing left but the overlooked traces of his crimes. An orphan boy, a man jailed despite his innocence, a grieving teacher with nothing left.

The fact that very shortly Regulus will have to meet Remus again, that he’ll have to stand before his brother’s best friend and try not to let any of the things he knows slip through, makes his tension wind tighter. Even here, in the warmth and light of Honeydukes, Regulus can feel his heartbeat pick up, his hands shake. He hides them in the fall of his cloak, ducks his head a little further to conceal the quickening of his breath, and tries to tell himself not to panic. Remus thinks Sirius is a traitor, which means he won’t be looking for hints as to his innocence. He thinks Regulus is here on some brave mission to guard James’s son from his brother’s revenge, and the whole idea is laughable. This is a desperate, panicked flight towards Sirius in one last attempt to find him before the Aurors can, to stop him and help him and keep him safe.

Regulus couldn’t do it when they were children. He couldn’t do it when the Dark Lord was rising and everything was crumbling into war. Hadn’t wanted to, at times, had felt guiltily grateful and gleeful that Sirius bore the brunt of their mother’s displeasure. She’d thought harsh words and a few strikes or hexes were the best way to keep her children in line, and Regulus had obeyed, had conformed and been as perfect a son as he could be, but Sirius had gone the other direction, and suffered for it.

It hadn’t been quite so simple, in the end—Regulus was never quite perfect enough, was never as good as Sirius no matter how he tried, and their mother hadn’t taken kindly to his failures. And after Sirius left, she was so _angry_ all the time, their father no help at all in controlling her temper. Regulus had hated, had seethed, had been _abandoned_ , and he’d let it turn him away from Sirius, right up until it was too late.

He won’t make the same mistake again. He won’t let himself. Not with Sirius’s freedom on the line.

A burst of sharp laughter almost startles him out of his skin, and Regulus twitches hard, glances up as the witches in front of him move up to the counter. The harried-looking salesgirl rings them up in a rush, practically shoving their packages back towards them as she waves Regulus forward, and he hurries to pull the correct change from his dwindling coin purse.

“No bag,” he tells her, pocketing the bars, and she casts him a faintly narrow, wary look as she writes down the sale in a ledger.

“Will that be all, sir?” she asks dutifully, and Regulus nods and slides back, ducking out the door and heading for the edge of the Forbidden Forest at a quick pace.

A heavy cloak isn’t the most inconspicuous disguise, especially right now. It says rather more clearly than Regulus would like that he’s trying to conceal his face at the very least, and with so many Aurors about that’s an invitation for trouble. Still, it’s less noticeable than walking around bare-faced a short amble from where he spent all of his school years, in a place he frequented as a boy. Especially when, from a distance, he’s easily mistaken for Sirius—a less handsome, less charming, less intelligent version of his brother, his mother used to call him, and Regulus knows well enough that it’s true. Sirius was the bright star between them, and Regulus the distant second. A rough copy, but similar enough to make problems if someone gets a clear look at his face.

Of course, Regulus at bare minimum has the advantage of a Slytherin’s cunning, to balance out Sirius’s reckless forward charge. With any luck, it will be enough to at least let him intercept Sirius before something goes wrong, even if Regulus will have to hope that some thread of remaining fondness will keep Sirius from then hexing him on sight. Or maybe surprise will be enough for that—Remus seemed very sure that Sirius thought Regulus dead.

It’s what Regulus planned for, what he wanted. Safer for everyone to assume he’d been killed on a raid, or murdered by the Dark Lord, or died trying to escape him. but—it means, too, that Sirius has spent the last decade believing Regulus never saw the error of his ways, that he never knew Regulus was entirely willing, in that last moment, to give his life for a good reason.

It’s better that he didn’t, of course. He knows that now. But in the lake, with the Inferi, it truly was his end, and he’d had no expectation of escaping.

It’s more a symbolic death than anything, now. The Regulus who emerged from the lake was someone different from the Regulus who went in, no longer blinded or helpless or weak. Shivering on that shore, bruised and bleeding and half-mad as he coughed up the water in his lungs, he’d known that he couldn’t go back to his family. Could never, ever go back to the Dark Lord, regardless of the consequences.

It was for the better. The soul shard in the locket wasn’t the only one, was just one of many that the Dark Lord made in his mad quest for immortality, and if Regulus had died in the lake it would have been a futile, foolish thing, however noble.

So many years on the run have entirely changed him, but—that moment was the start of everything.

The edge of the Forbidden Forest is dark and heavily shadowed, even though the sun hasn’t quite set yet. Regulus keeps his steps swift, doesn’t glance behind himself to see if anyone is watching. The arm of the forest here curves, leading back towards Hogwarts, and the cover is enough to let Regulus make it all the way back to the shore of the Black Lake without being seen. He noticed a handful of Aurors on his way down, patrols to augment the Dementors, and the thought of having to hide from them is unnerving. At the very least, when Regulus does most of his sneaking, he’s near people who have the same interest in avoiding the attention of any authority. Here, with law-abiding witches and wizards all around and a force of wary, well-prepared officials on the lookout for anyone suspicious, it’s far more dangerous.

“Damn it, Siri,” he mutters to himself, ducking under a low branch and trying to keep his footsteps as soundless as possible. The curse is automatic, at this point; maybe it’s petty, but Regulus is more than willing to put blame for all his current troubles on Sirius, for all that he doesn’t blame him for his choices.

At some point in the near future, Regulus is going to have to start making preparations for dealing with the Horcruxes, especially if he’s going to be in proximity to his brother for any length of time. Sirius will poke his nose into anything and everything, as he always has, and Regulus doesn’t trust himself to keep everything a secret. He’ll let something slip, eventually, because he’s not used to having anyone around who _knows_ him, and whether it’s the secret of James's survival or the Horcruxes, Sirius will pry _something_ out of him. Then Gryffindor recklessness will take over, and Regulus will have to change plans midstream again.

Maybe, if he can limit the fallout by bringing Sirius into the secrets early, things will be more easily managed. That means deciding what to reveal, though, and just the thought itches uncomfortably at Regulus’s spine. He’s kept his secrets from _everyone_ for thirteen years now; only Kreacher knows the extent of them, and he won't tell anyone, won't betray anything even if Sirius ever manages to take his place as head of the family. Regulus knows that the same way he knows how to breathe. Kreacher won't betray him.

No one else knows enough of Regulus’s secrets to be a threat, and Regulus plans to keep it that way. Soon he’ll have to check in with his contacts, see if any of them have found more information, any hints about Ravenclaw’s diadem or healing spells he hasn’t tried yet, but—Regulus can't rely on them for much beyond that. Needs to step back, keep away beyond his requests for research. Maybe find new people, since those he has now have likely gathered too much of a picture regarding what he’s aiming for. Nothing complete, nothing comprehensive, but maybe enough to be a threat under the right circumstances, and Regulus can't risk it.

Taking a breath, Regulus shakes himself, pulls his hood back just enough that the fabric isn't blocking his vision, and checks what he can see of the castle through the trees. Classroom lights have been put out, and it’s likely most of the students are in the Great Hall right now, the teachers with them or close behind them. He told Remus he’d turn up late, but—better to go early, just in case. Passing through the castle will be more of a risk, but if Remus intended any sort of trap, this will circumvent it well enough.

Regulus doesn’t think there's a risk of a trap; after all, he had implied clearly enough that he knew Remus's secret when they met, and that should be blackmail enough to keep him free. Still, the fact that someone knows both where he is and who he is prickles down his spine like panic, and Regulus refuses to take chances, especially when it’s conceivable that James could be in the line of fire should Remus try to have him arrested. Regulus hasn’t found records of anyone else discovering Gryffindor’s room, but if he found it while he was at school, someone else must have, over the years. Better not to take the chance.

Unwilling to intrude too often on the room and its guardian, Regulus skirts the jut of stone that hides the chamber’s entrance, and heads instead for the tower above it, the door he charmed to open for him even when locked from the inside. There's no one in the passage beyond, but he can hear voices, footsteps, the sounds of too many people. Grimacing, Regulus slides deeper into the shadows of a suit of armor, casting a quick Disillusionment Charm over himself before he ducks into one of the wider halls. There are a few groups of straggling students, but none of them so much as glance up when Regulus passes, and he keeps his steps as light as possible, doesn’t linger. The Defense professor’s office is still where it was when Regulus was a student, and he tests the door, finds it locked with a simple charm, and undoes it without trouble, then slips inside.

The marks of Remus's presence here are obvious; he still organizes the same way he did as a student, dresses the same, reads the same books. Everything is just a little shabbier now, carrying the marks of a hard life. Regulus drops the charm and steps forward, wary of traps but not able to find anything amiss, and when the only reaction to his presence is the aggravated attention of the Grindylow in its tank, he lets out a breath. Reaching out, he skims his fingers over a few of the books on the closest shelf, studying the titles. He hasn’t had a chance to read more than a few snatches of books here and there since his last stay at Malfoy Manor, and he misses that more than most things in his old life. Books were always his companions, and the more obscure the subject the better. Remus's tastes seem to run along the same lines; Regulus recognizes a few of the books, some that he’s read and some that he’s wanted to, and the temptation is almost painful.

Hesitating, Regulus bites his lip, but can't stop himself from tipping a treatise on defensive spells out until he can see the cover. It’s an old book, not one he’s encountered, but he recognizes the author as a master in the field. Regulus used to have one of her books on ward creation, and he thoroughly enjoyed it.

Unable to resist, Regulus tugs the thick volume out of its place, flipping it open to the contents and running his finger down the list of chapter titles. This book looks to be just as fascinating as the witch’s other work, and Regulus _wants_ with a voracious hunger that he hasn’t let himself feel in a long while. He can't carry a book with him, though, not while he’s on the run; there's every chance it could get damaged, or abandoned if he has to leave a place suddenly, and the idea of doing that to a book doesn’t sit well with Regulus. Still…

There are a few hours until Remus is likely to return, and the office sports several comfortable-looking chairs pushed back by the window. Regulus looks at them, wavers, and then glances at the book he’s holding again. Takes a breath, and—

Well. If he’s waiting, there's little chance Remus will be able to sneak him and lay an ambush. Occupying himself while he waits is simply smart.

Decided, Regulus retreats to the chair with the best view of the door, settles down, and gently opens the book to the first page.

 

 

The security the Aurors have mounted is almost laughable, especially when set against a thorough knowledge of Hogwarts’s secret passages. The trapdoor in the Honeydukes cellar is still right where he remembers, and it’s easy enough to slip into the store while the salesgirl takes out the trash. Once he’s in the passage, he might as well be untouchable, with full access to the castle and no chance of being caught.

Smiling humorlessly to himself, Sirius hunkers down in the tunnel below the statue of the humpbacked witch, tearing into one of the chocolate bars he managed to snag on his way through Honeydukes. The chocolate’s warmth is enough to make him close his eyes as it trickles through him, but it’s not as effective as he remembers.

Then again, Sirius supposes, twelve years of Dementors must take a hell of a lot of chocolate to fix.

Of course, in the castle itself there's little risk of running into a Dementor, at least right now, and it’s one of the main reasons Sirius picked this passage to hide out in, instead of the Shrieking Shack or the Forbidden Forest. He’ll have to be a little careful when he crawls out, but it will be fine; he remembers the castle’s layout, and he knows precisely where he needs to go. The path to the Gryffindor common room might as well be engraved into his memory.

Getting the password will take some doing, especially without a wand, but Sirius has faith he’ll manage. If he’s lucky, he might even manage to catch Peter out in the hall some night, alone and vulnerable. The thought makes him grin, teeth bared in the darkness, and he chuckles to himself. The image of ripping Peter apart is one of the things that’s kept him going all these years, and he’s so close to it right now. _Temptingly_ close, and Sirius will do anything he can to make sure that daydream comes true.

Harry's here, too. Sirius hasn’t been able to find much mention of him in the old newspapers he’s dug through, or in what books he can get his hands on. It makes his godson a mystery, but at the very least Sirius can catch a few glimpses of him, clearer than that one in Little Whinging. It’s been twelve years, and it’s hard to image how he must have changed over that time. Makes something in Sirius’s chest ache, because he could have _seen_ it, but Peter took that away from him. took that away from him _twice_ , first by betraying Lily and James and then by faking his own death. A coward, right to the end, and Sirius will _relish_ finally committing the crime that he was sent to Azkaban for. Peter needs to die, and Sirius is happy to play the hand of fate in this case.

Stretching his legs out in front of him, he braces his back against the stone wall, debating what he should do next. He can scout the halls, see if he can overhear the password being used for the common room. If he can catch it, that will make everything easier. Even if he can't, though, he can raid the kitchens once all the house elves have retired, finally get his hands on some real food not scrounged from a dumpster. Sirius’s stomach rumbles at the thought, and he pushes up, considering. No way to tell the time in the tunnel, but—it’s probably fine. It was late when he got to Honeydukes, and it’s been at least an hour since then.

When he slides out of the passage, dropping lightly to the stone, the hallway is empty and dark, the castle silent. Satisfied, Sirius takes a step towards the staircase—

“I’d thought no one remembered that passage,” a voice says, right behind him, and Sirius spins, grabbing for the knife he managed to steal on his way here. The blade gleams in the flicker of a torch lighting, coming alive without so much as a gesture, and the man standing in the hall looks from Sirius to the short blade, raising a brow.

“It’s been a very long while since I saw a wizard use a knife,” he says, somewhere between amusement and admiration. Takes a step forward, and Sirius doesn’t let himself retreat even though his heart is pounding.

He narrows his eyes instead, advancing until he’s just out of grabbing range, and says dangerously, “If you scream, I won't have any compunctions cutting your throat.”

The man lets his gaze slide up to catch Sirius’s, and his smile still hasn’t wavered. He’s no one Sirius recognizes from his own school years, either professor or student, but he’s also making no move to so much as draw his wand. Just standing in the flickering lamplight, watching Sirius with his head cocked faintly, mane of red hair catching the shadows as they move like fire.

“No compunctions?” the man repeats, and smiles faintly. “Maybe not. But I think you’d feel regret, after the deed was done.”

Sirius’s fingers tighten on the knife, and he can't decide whether he wants to lunge for the man or turn and run. There's something off, something strange, and it itches at Sirius, makes him shift his weight back as he flicks a quick glance at the other end of the hall—

There's no shadow on the floor beneath the man.

“You're a ghost?” Sirius asks, lowering the knife with a breath. Not a threat, then, but there's no way for Sirius to stop him if he decides to get the Aurors.

The man chuckles. “No need to sound so disappointed,” he says lightly. “I'm sure there's someone else in the castle you can threaten with that knife. I’d just like to ask that you leave the children out of it.”

“I don’t want anything with the students,” Sirius says, a little offended that the man would think he did. Then again, Sirius supposes that breaking into a school armed with a knife doesn’t provide many opportunities for alternate interpretations. “I'm here for someone else.”

A subtle tension eases out of the man’s frame, and his smile settles, loses the edge that Sirius hadn’t even noticed. “Oh, good,” he says, like it’s a joke. “Then I won't have to do away with you. That’s a relief.”

By all rights, it should sound like a jest. It doesn’t. Sirius takes a half-step back, assessing, but the ghost still hasn’t moved. He’s not overly tall, not overly broad, with a scarred face and wild hair, dressed not in robes but in a long tunic with a wide sword belt. The ornate scabbard, a contrast to the man’s simple clothes, is empty, and Sirius’s gaze lingers on it curiously for a moment before he meets the ghost’s eyes again.

“I don’t remember you from my time here,” he says.

“You likely wouldn’t,” the man agrees easily. “I've been asleep for a very long time, and I was only just woken up.” He tilts his head again, considering Sirius, and then asks, “If you're not here for a student, who are you looking for?”

Sirius doesn’t ask how he knows that much. “A rat,” he says with vicious humor. “A sneaking, crawling, cowardly _rat_.”

Something flickers in the man’s eyes, and his smile slips sideways, turns crooked. “Rats have always been the worst sort of vermin,” he agrees. Pauses, then, watching Sirius, and asks, “Care to tell me your name?”

Hiding it would be smart, probably, but there's no way the ghost couldn’t find it out just by asking a patrolling Auror. Sirius lifts his chin, a silent dare, and says, “I'm Sirius Black.”

This time, the expression that crosses the man’s face is clearer. Surprise, then humor, touched with something like ruefulness, and he inclines his head.

“A pleasure to meet you, even under these circumstances,” he says with amusement, and half-turns, gaze going distant. “I assume you're not supposed to be here,” he says, and it’s not a question. “There are prefects on their way.”

Sirius mutters a curse, checking the stairs. Empty, currently, but with how they’re shifting it will take too long to get down. There are more stairs on the other side of the castle, near classrooms and therefore unlikely to be used this time of night, and Sirius doesn’t linger; he picks up a run, heading for them at speed.

It’s something of a surprise when the ghost keeps pace, flickering along beside him like a half-seen heat mirage. “Why exactly are you sneaking around the castle?” he asks. “Don’t mistake me, I appreciate that you have no interest in harming students, but in that case wouldn’t a head-on approach work better?”

“It _would_ ,” Sirius says bitterly, “but I was framed. Twelve years in Azkaban, while that bastard walked free, but this time I’ll kill him for real.”

There's a moment of silence, contemplative instead of condemning. “You were a Gryffindor, then,” the man says, full of warm humor, and Sirius barks out a laugh, careful to keep it quiet enough that they won't be found.

“I _am_ a Gryffindor,” he retorts, and grabs the edge of the stairs, flinging himself down them at a run.

When he reaches the bottom, the ghost is waiting, one hand hooked into his belt and a smile unwavering on his face. Sirius pauses beside him, curious but willing to take the lack of hostility at face value; ghosts don’t have the same motivations as the living, and their priorities are rarely the same. It’s entirely reasonable, then, that this ghost would be willing to accept that Sirius means no harm to the school and leave it at that.

“Not going to run for help?” he asks, just to be sure.

The ghost raises a hand, like a surrender. “I've been told,” he says gaily, “that Gryffindors are reckless and overly stubborn. I though I’d keep an eye on you, in light of that.”

Sirius snorts, but turns down the hall towards the kitchens. “If you give me away, I _will_ find some way to stab a ghost,” he threatens, and the ghost laughs.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Sirius, and his green eyes are bright. “I think I can manage to stay out of your way well enough.”


End file.
